I Am Not Afraid of Storms
by Eomer'sFaelwen
Summary: AU: Emma Swan has faced a hard life, but has earned hard-won independence as the owner of her father's tavern. A ship sails into port, bringing with it a tormented Killian Jones and his crew. Emma finds herself aboard the Jolly Roger, and a begrudging romance begins, until one fateful night changes and challenges everything.


Emma Swan awoke to the crow of the rooster in the yard below. How they always seemed to know when it was almost dawn she would never know, but she would always be eternally grateful for his reliable cry, even if it dragged her from her warm bed. She had arisen to that jarring cry for several years now, and though it was her routine, it never seemed to get any easier.

With a half-hearted groan, she swung her tired limbs over the side of the bed, wincing as her bare feet came into contact with the cold wood floor. She placed them down gingerly, wanting with all her being to dive for the warmth of her quilt once more. But it would not do to start the day late. There were things that needed tending to before the rest of the world's day had begun, and it was her job to see to them.

Her arms came over her head, reaching above her and stretching the last remnants of sleep from her drowsy figure. She stood, looking down from her window and out over the bay below. Her job was a hard one, but it had brought her this view fit for a king, along with an uncommon independence rarely afforded to women. She smiled as she watched the first rays of the dawn send their pinkish glow over the edge of the horizon, relishing the way that the inky black surface of the sea slowly began to turn blue once more. It was, to put it sentimentally, her small and personal daily miracle, and nothing, not even a warm bed, would make her miss it.

Turning from the window, she tiptoed silently across the cold floorboards, avoiding those she knew would creak so as not to disturb the many sleeping bodies below. Her well-worn dress hung from a hook near the washbasin. After a quick splash of cold water across her cheeks, she slipped the cotton fabric over her shoulders. With deft and well-practiced movements she cinched the simple blue dress at her waist with a yellowed apron, its blemished softness no longer the snow white it had once been. But though it was old, it was clean and she wore it as a sort of badge of honor, a symbol of her hard work, and of the blood, sweat, and tears that she had poured into this place.

She crossed the room once more, this time to the small door at the far end, which led downstairs. After snatching up the worn leather shoes that waited for her there beside the doorframe, she turned the rusted latch slowly so it would not squeak in protest. It swung outward with a gentle shove, revealing a battered staircase that traveled up from the floor below. She shut her own door behind her, still moving quietly so that the others would remain undisturbed. She lowered herself carefully to sit on the top step of the stair, unlacing the old shoes and sliding the soft leather onto her feet.

Taking a small moment to gather herself before going about the day, she stared into the dust swirling in the soft dawn light of the single window at the apex of the roof. When she was a child, she used to amuse herself by looking for images in the dust moats, finding in them terrible beasts, brave knights, and ladies fair. The small pieces of floating dust would align for but an instant, and then, before she could blink, the image would be gone, wiped away by the unseen and unfelt wind which kept the dust in constant motion. For a moment, she caught herself wishing for the days when things had been so simple, when her daydreams and fancies had dominated her everyday life. But she was content with her life now too, for she was her own mistress, and who could ask for more than that?

She stood carefully, distributing her weight evenly on the stair so that it would not shift and creak. A slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth at the silence that met her ears. It had been three years since she had last made that step emit a sound, and she was pleased in a small way that her streak had not been broken. Throughout her life, Emma had learned to appreciate the small victories that were won every day; the victories that slipped by the unwitting common man. It was these small victories that allowed her to work as diligently and as enduringly as she had since her father had died eight years ago, and she was glad of each and every one.

David had been a good man, and a more dedicated worker she had never known. His purpose, his passion had been the running of his tavern. Since she was a young girl, she had been put to work carrying trays, folding wash, and helping him with the small daily chores that made his tavern run like clockwork. He had given her more responsibilities as she aged, each of which she had taken on gladly. This tavern was the mother she had hardly known; its darkened corners holding her when she was sad, its rooms filled with echoes of her laughter. Her father had even rechristened the place _Mary's Harbor House_ after she had passed. This well-loved building was more than her home. It was her mother, and now her father as well, and she cared for both it and its patrons with equal care and devotion.

On the tips of her toes she went quickly down the stairs, skipping the ninth and the thirteenth, which had a bad habit for squealing and cracking respectively. The landing at the bottom greeted her with its worn and faded carpet, muffling her footsteps like an old, kind friend. She strode quickly to the end of the hall, listening for any signs of stirring from the few guests that had slept there the night before, and, hearing none, went down to the kitchens to see how Ashley was getting along with the morning meal.

The willowy kitchen maid was aggressively kneading dough when Emma arrived downstairs. Flour coated her hands and had been smudged across her cheek. It filled the golden air around her with each push, giving the impression of a dusty halo. The kitchen itself was filled with hearty smells of baking bread, salty bacon, and sweetened porridge, a pot of which was bubbling gently over a crackling fire. A clay-fired mug of steaming coffee awaited her on the table across from Ashley, a small daily gesture that Emma never failed to appreciate.

"Good morning, Ash," Emma yawned, her earlier alertness deserting her in the warm and drowsy kitchen.

Ashley looked up from her task, only just realizing that Emma was there. She met Emma's eyes with a forlorn glance that spoke of things that Emma knew all too well.

Emma sighed, "You dreamed about him again, didn't you?"

"Yes," replied Ashley, drawing out the word in one long moan of heartache. "I wish I wouldn't but I close my eyes and he's _right there_ Emma, just within my reach. And then when I open my eyes again he's just...he's just _gone_! Why are dreams so cruel?"

She had been like this for nearly two months. Emma had sent her to the market that day to make the rounds at the stalls, and Prince Thomas had ridden through. It was the first time that the young girl had seen him, and she had fancied herself smitten ever since. Emma pitied her, both for her romanticized ideas of love and for the unattainable happy ending that she clung to.

She herself had never found love, and had never had any notions of doing so. For Emma, it was simply a matter of economy. If she were to marry, the tavern would legally be her husband's, and that was something that she would never be willing to give. And so, long ago she had given up any delusion of love, writing it off as some girlish fantasy. Marriage, and love for that matter, was a contract, a document being signed. Nothing more.

She rolled her eyes at Ashley, a loving gesture that meant no harm. She pushed off from the edge of the table, forcing her tired body to its feet. Her arms reached out to the girl, no more than seventeen years of age, and she took her in a mothering embrace. "Oh, Ash," she sighed, offering the floured girl a soft pat on the shoulder, "Dreams are cruel because life is often so. You and I know that better than anyone."

And it was true. Emma had lost her mother, been raised by a man, lost him as well, and toiled day, and sometimes night, to run the inn that he had loved so much. Ashley had been raised in a home that had only warranted being called such because it was where she had rested her head at night. When her mother had died, her father had become a drunk. Though he had remarried, the woman to which he had pledged himself loved his gold more than his money, and had loved Ashley even less than her new husband. The girl had been made into a slave, treated as less than even the lowliest servant. Her torment had ended with another crushing blow. One night, Ashley's father strangled his wife in a drunken rage, and, realizing what he had done, killed himself in turn. Emma had found her on the streets, begging for even the smallest crust of bread from those who passed her by.

Ashley sniffled, "I know, but life has been so much kinder to me since I've been here with you. And sometimes I...I just can't keep from wanting _more._ From dreaming."

"Nothing wrong with dreaming, Ash," consoled Emma, wishing she could say something more helpful. She hated to see the girl so distraught over simple thoughts. Dreams were supposed to bring happiness and provide hope, not bring heartache and suffering.

"You know," Ashley chuckled softly, "one of the few memories that I have of my real mother, you know, before she died, is of this saying that she used to have." She smiled, lost in some distant recollection. "'A dream is a wish your heart makes,' she used to tell me. And oh, Emma, my heart has been wishing so hard lately. Sometimes I almost fool myself into thinking that dream could possibly come true."

Emma smiled gently as she gave the girl one last squeeze, "You never know, I guess. But don't lose yourself in dreams just now. That breakfast needs to be ready soon. They'll be up before long, and we've a long day ahead of us." The flour in the air had stilled, but as she walked back around the table to savor the last of her coffee, she noticed that most of it had settled on her. Amusement won out over annoyance, and she glanced back at Ashley with a shake of her head. "And don't take your frustration out on the bread too much, we need the flour in the bowl and not on ourselves!"

Ashley grinned and let out a tittering laugh, "It'll brush right off! Go light the fire, and I'll bring the food up soon."

Emma smiled in return and, after draining the remainder of her coffee in one quick swallow, took the steps to the first floor at a quick pace, determined that her tavern should run as flawlessly today as it always had before.

_Mary's Harbor House _had always had the best reputation of any tavern in the port. Her rooms had the best view and her hearth the best hospitality that the harbor had to offer, and since Emma had begun to run the place herself, those traits had held true, and word of mouth had spread farther than it ever had when her father had lived. Men and women came from miles around to stay at the famed tavern, and each night it was filled to the brim with sailors and laborers looking to spend their hard earned gold. Reputation was everything to Emma, and each day she worked tirelessly to ensure no blemish would ever mar that which she had labored to perfect.

The list of chores for the morning was simple, and Emma went about them quickly and routinely, never missing a single step. It was as if each sweep of the broom and every wipe of the cleaning rag was a well-learned dance. In a matter of just ten minutes, the entire place was clean, ready for the first sleepy guests to shuffle their way downstairs. She took a moment to lean up against the bar and admire her work. The dark cedar timbers that composed the space shone from years of being worn to a smooth finish. The candles on the tables were fresh, bought at the market just the day before. The fire was lit, roaring and crackling heartily under the immense stone mantelpiece. Logs were piled carefully beside the hearth, ready to be fed to the burning blaze. Warmth filled the room, creating a comfortable space on the chilly spring morning. Emma smiled as her eyes completed their sweep of the room, and, declaring the job completed, she returned downstairs to help Ashley finish preparing the morning meal.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Emma hardly paused in her movements, constantly running off to attend to the needs of some guest or another. Beds were made, meals were served, drinks were poured, and the men who had stayed the night before took their leave. It was a day much like most others, and with constant work to do, it passed by quickly enough.

At midday, Emma took some bread, cheese, and small ale outside and sat on the old wooden bench her father had made to sit beside the door. She leaned back, allowing her head to fall back onto the rough wood siding. A small sigh of contentment escaped her, speaking of sore muscles that had been given rest for the first time in too long. Her shoulders rolled back and forth almost of their own accord, relieving the tension that had rested itself there. The sun warmed her skin, relaxing her further as a slow, languid smile crept across her face. A salty breeze came in from the ocean, caressing her face and causing her eyelids to flutter open at the sensation. She sat herself back up and took a small bite of bread and cheese, glad to have taken this quiet moment for herself.

It was a beautiful and bright afternoon. The sunlight flickered across the clear, blue water of the bay, flashing here and there as the waves rolled ceaselessly toward the shoreline. A ship was growing steadily closer on the horizon, though it was still too far away to tell whether or not it was a merchant ship. Gulls circled the masts of the fishing vessels that dotted the bay, hoping for a bite or two of fish before the day was done. Emma's eyes drank in the sights before her, breaking away only when necessary to smile and give a friendly nod to the occasional passerby.

The wind was gentle, but it blew ceaselessly, pushing silken strands of Emma's hair into her face. Each strand tickled her cheeks and lips before being pushed back into place where it belonged. But the wind was restless and seemed determined to make Emma's hair so. Her patience worn thin, she reached behind her for the spare pin that she kept tucked into the base of her loose chignon for just such occasions. Deftly, she pinned the errant hairs into place so they would not bother her any longer.

Her fingers traced their way back down her neck, brushing across the thin metal chain that hung there. They continued downward, coming to the heavy gold locket that hung at the hollow of her throat. She picked the locked up, closing her hand around its solid weight as she remembered the woman to whom it had first belonged, a woman who she had hardly known, but who had nonetheless borne the title of "mother".

Its surface was etched with a delicate filigree of vines and leaves, at the center of which lay a single rose. Her father used to say that her mother's lips reminded him of the fairest red rose that he had ever seen, though her mother used to laugh and roll her eyes whenever he said it. Inside the locket lay a small pool of fragrance, the scent of which hung about her mother in a constant faint veil. Mary only ever wore the perfume on very special occasions, but whenever she had it had, made David smile. It smelt of jasmine, her mother's favorite flower, as well as frankincense and other exotic spices from across the sea. The locket and its hidden scent had been a wedding gift from her father to her mother, and she had worn it every day of her life.

Emma's favorite part of the locket was neither the beautiful etching nor the perfume inside. It was the small diamond that was inlaid at the center of the rose. The gem had been of her mother's engagement band. According to her father, Mary had taken both the ring and the locket to a jeweler to have the diamond placed at the heart of the rose. Mary had been, as was her father and herself, an incredibly hard worker, dedicated in every way to the tavern that they called their home. She had fretted constantly that the diamond on her finger would be lost, knocked loose whilst scrubbing or kneading or washing. And so the diamond was taken from the ring and placed at the center of the rose, for as she had claimed, it would be forever closer to her heart that way.

A soft breeze claimed another strand of hair, feathering it across her cheekbones and catching it in her eyelashes as Emma's eyes flickered open, her reverie interrupted. Sighing, she dropped the locket back into its place at the base of her throat and pinned away the wisp once more. Her eyes lowered to her lap, where her small meal had been forgotten amidst her remembrances. She picked a small piece of bread from the loaf and brought it to her mouth, savoring the sweet taste as her eyes resumed their exploration of the town below.

Her father and mother had chosen to build their tavern at the top of the hill. An unusual choice, for most were situated closer to the harbor to provide easier access to the sailors. But David had insisted and had built with his bare hands the small beginnings of their inn. The stones had been taken from the ruins of a once proud fort that had stood atop the hill in the days of the ogre rebellion some hundreds of years ago. Her father used to say that the stones had given them both luck and protection, and Emma could hardly dispute with him after seeing the success of their tavern in spite of its lofty location.

The town below was a jumble of stone buildings, most of which stood no more than two stories tall. The various hues of grey and brown would have seemed dreary if not for the colorful fluttering garments that hung above the streets on clotheslines to dry in the ocean breeze. Since it was now spring, the flowerboxes that perched outside most every window were bursting with blooms of all different hues, giving the already cheerful town an especially festive look.

The streets were small, oftentimes so narrow that only two men could walk abreast. Archways spanned between some of the buildings, offering small patches of shade of bright, sunny days. Despite its deceptively small size, the town was one of the most important ports in the kingdom, bringing prosperity and happiness to most of its citizens as a result. Emma counted herself blessed to live and work in such a place and loved her father and mother more for every sunrise she witnessed over the bay that she called home.

Her lunch finished, she took one last swig of her small ale before taking a final look out at the harbor. The ship, which had been nearly at the horizon before, was now entering the bay. She could see now that it was a brig, a fairly small sailing vessel with two masts. Her father had taught her to identify the different types of ships when she was a girl, and it had come in handy a time or two whilst making small talk with the many captains that had passed through the doors of her tavern.

Its hull was a gleaming white, the upper hull decorated with stripes of green and bright yellow. Her sails were being taken down as she watched, and the beautiful ship began to slow as a result. It was an impressive vessel to be sure, but, to Emma, it meant guests. She wheeled around quickly and returned indoors, wanting to prepare Ashley for the numerous men that they were about to receive.

The next several hours were spent readying the rooms overhead for their guests. She and Ashley scrubbed, scoured, and cleaned until each of the rooms shone. The last room, the one she usually reserved for her very best guests, Emma decided to tackle herself. It was the largest room in the tavern, but she didn't mind working on it alone and sent Ashley down to begin preparations for dinner.

The room had been her mother and father's when they were still alive. In addition to being the largest room, it also boasted the best view other than her own loft above. A large picture window opened to a spectacular view of the bay. She wandered over to the window, deciding to clean the sill should the captain of the new ship decide to rest upon it and admire the view. Beneath her, she could see the ship itself, its tall masts standing proud and erect. Men the size of ants scurried along the deck of the grand vessel, skittering to and fro whilst lashing down this and that. Her thoughts began to wander as she watched, imagining a life aboard such a ship. She supposed that such a life wouldn't be very much different than the one she currently occupied, though she frowned when she imagined taking orders from the ship's yet unseen Captain. Emma hadn't followed rules other than her own in many years, and doing so didn't sit well with her.

She broke her gaze away from the ship, snapping her daydream in two as she did so and set back to her task. She moved about the room methodically, tackling each small job as it presented itself to her. In time, the sill was clean, the hearth was laid with fresh wood, the linens on the large four-poster, and the floor was free of dust and debris. Satisfied with her work, she opened the window to air out the room somewhat before her guest arrived to occupy it. She took one last glance at the ship anchored below in the bay before turning to leave. There was work yet to be done.

The stairs creaked mercilessly on her way back down. It was getting late in the day, and she didn't have the time or inclination to make her way quietly as she had this morning. Her gaze flicked up as her feet hit the worn wooden boards of the main floor and found two figures standing at the bar. Though the bright afternoon sun that streamed in the windows behind them obscured their features, she smiled in greeting, for she would know those two figures anywhere.

"Hello Willem. Hello Tristan. I trust you've had a pleasant afternoon?"

"Aye Miss Emma. That we have," growled Willem in his rough voice. Though there was always harshness in his tone, there existed too an underlying current of warmth when he spoke to Emma that made it one of her favorite sounds in the world. She had known Willem since she was a small girl, and he had become much like another father to her. He and his son Tristan worked the bar during the evening rush and had stayed on even after Emma's father had died. She was grateful to them for so much. It was useful having two strong men around, especially when disputes broke out between customers, as was known to happen. Even Emma's stubborn independence could admit that she would not have been in business long after her father's death if not for them.

"And you, Miss Emma," Tristan said, his voice sounding quieter and gentler that his father's. "I hope that your day has been pleasant as well."

She smiled politely at him, though not too warmly she hoped. Ashley had confided to her some weeks ago that Tristan had developed romantic feelings for her, and though she liked him well enough, she would do nothing to encourage him, much to Ashley's dismay.

"Yes, thank you, Tristan," she replied. Turning back to his father, she continued, "It's nearly five o'clock, I believe. Men should start arriving soon, and I've got to help Ashley in the kitchen for the time being. Can the two of you manage up here well enough without me for an hour or so?"

"O'course, Miss Emma. Tristan and I'll see to it that everything runs smooth like."

"Thank you. I'll be as quick as I can. Tristan, there's two casks of ale need changing. Ashley brought them up from the basement this morning, but they still need to be brought 'round and put in. Would you do it for me?"

"Aye, Miss Emma. T'would be my pleasure." The look behind his eyes told Emma that Ashley's suspicions were more than likely correct. She had always had a talent for reading people, particularly for knowing when they were being truthful or not. The lad did indeed fancy himself in love with her, as far as her gift could tell. As she turned to join Ashley in the kitchens, she sighed, wondering how on earth she would deal with him.

At times she wished that Ashley had not told her; for if she hadn't, Emma would most likely not have noticed the change in him. Love was always furthest from her thoughts, and being twenty-eight years of age and never having experienced the emotion herself, she was often ill adept at noticing or receiving gestures of affection. Now that she knew, however, it was a problem that she needed to confront. She knew not how to handle it, for she worried that if she should spurn his affections, he would take offense and leave her employ. Marrying the boy was certainly not an option. Not for her, at least. He was handsome enough, she allowed. To that much, she was not blind. But having resolved long ago that she would never marry, the idea held no appeal for her despite his manifold attractions.

She came around the corner of the winding stone stair to find Ashley lax in her work. The maid was staring out the small window near the ceiling, which looked out at ground level. Through the smudged glass Emma could make out Tristan, lifting the casks of ale onto his broad shoulders as easily as if they had been down pillows.

She cleared her throat, smirking knowingly at Ashley's capriciousness. In a few hours, she knew from experience, the young girl will have found a young, dashing sea captain to moon over, and both Prince Thomas and Tristan would be forgotten. Ashley jumped slightly at the sound and turned to face Emma with a blush already creeping across her cheeks. The girl offered a small, apologetic smile, and Emma laughed in return whilst stirring the nearest thing that came to hand. Guests would begin pouring in before long, and they were far from ready to serve them.

They worked in amicable silence, communicating only when strictly necessary. It wasn't that Emma forbid the girl to talk, but Ashley knew that Emma would not tolerate a late dinner, and so refrained from opening her mouth. Before long, the stew had simmered to a perfect consistency, the round loaves of grain bread had been baked, and the leg of beef was roasted to a turn. Satisfied, Emma gave one final set of quick instructions before returning upstairs to play at hostess and welcome her new guests.

It was still rather quiet upstairs when her feet touched the landing, the low muffled sound of the few voices present hardly comparing to the boisterous din she knew would soon come. She smiled graciously at each guest and even paused to talk to some of the men who frequented her tavern in the evenings. They were as family to her and as welcome a sight to her eyes as Ashley or Willem.

She made her way slowly towards the rugged man now, wending her way between the tables and chairs spread across the floor. The light outside was fading, and Tristan had already set to work lighting the candles in their brass holders. She reached the bar and leaned upon it, feeling suddenly an overwhelming fatigue from the day's efforts. It was always in this slow and comfortable time before the rush when she felt the weight of the day press upon her shoulders, and today was certainly no different.

"Don't drift t'sleep on me yet, child," rumbled Willem, a tender edge creeping into his gruff voice. "There's work yet t'be done, and yer the one t'do it."

The corners of Emma's mouth lifted in a weary smile. He was right, of course. Her welcoming bed would embrace her in its folds soon enough, but now was not the time to think of it. With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself away from the bar, turning to assess the room and see where she was needed the most.

She did not have to look long, for her eyes quickly found Tristan threading his way through the steadily growing crowd of men to come to her side. There was urgency in his movements, and from it, Emma guessed the words that would come tumbling out of his mouth before he had made it to her side.

"Miss Emma," he breathed as he reached her, caressing her name with an earnestness that made her uncomfortable, "I've just had it from Charlie that the crew and Captain of the new ship at port are in their way up from the harbor. They've asked for recommendations for lodging and food and, of course, they were pointed here. They should arrive soon."

"Thank you, Tristan," she returned, somewhat more brusquely that she had intended. She had no patience for the boy's amorous tone, especially when there were about to be several important guests walking through the door of her tavern. "I'll see to them and to our usual customers. You'll attend to everyone else as usual. Understood?"

"Aye, Miss Emma. That I can do."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at his eagerness to please, she instead gave him a curt nod and moved toward the door, placing herself strategically so that she could greet her guests when they arrived, without making it look as though she had been awaiting them.

The next several minutes were unaccountably tense. Emma, for whatever reason, felt as though she was standing on the edge of a tall precipice, and there was darkness all around her. There was no way to know what lay before her, and she felt as though she would be compelled to jump...or be pushed.

The day had been more tiring than most, filled with an unexpected weariness with her established routine. Though she still undoubtedly loved the independence that she was fortunate enough to enjoy, she felt exhausted and older than her years. It had never before bothered her that her life would forever be a blur of men coming in and out of her doors, but suddenly, the prospect seemed dull and uninviting. Her head had been filled with remembrances and recollections of time past today. Surely, those memories must be the root of all her discomfort. These feelings would soon pass she was sure, but while they lasted, she knew she would retain this wretched weakness.

The heavy wooden door of the tavern had been thrown open some time ago, welcoming in its guests with promises of warmth and comfort. Through it, men sauntered inside in twos and threes, coming to share their tales of the day and unburden themselves of the heavy responsibilities they carried, if only for a little while. The tavern was already quite full, and Emma knew that with the eventual arrival of this new crew, they would have a long and busy night ahead of them. With one last fleeting thought of her quiet room and soft bed, she strained her ears for any hint of their approach.

Over the din of her guests Emma could hear a large party growing steadily closer in the twilight outside. The sound swelled suddenly, bolstered by the promise of hot food and cool ale, and a tide of sailors swept inside, led by a tall slim man dressed all in black.

He was obviously their captain, though he was much younger than the salted men that usually held the captaincy of a ship. He wore heeled leather boots and black leather breeches, into which he had tucked a shirt of fine silk. The cords of his shirt were loose, exposing a dusting of dark hair across the top of his chest. A heavy coat fell to the backs of his knees, catching the air and billowing out behind him. His neck and hands were adorned with silver, and large colored stones sat upon several of his fingers. His hair was unkempt, and the shadow of his beard was left unshaven. Light blue eyes were rimmed with dark kohl. He must have traveled quite far to have garnered such jewels and learned such exotic tricks. The young captain cut an impressive figure to be sure, and as he swaggered over to Emma, she gathered the impression that his opinion of himself was finer than his silver trinkets.

He spoke to her as one speaking to a servant, solidifying her first impression and forming an immediate dislike of this dark stranger. "I'm looking for the owner of this..." he paused, searching for the proper word, "_fine_ establishment. I wish to have some rooms for myself and my men, and as much ale and food as you can possibly spare. Go and fetch him for me, would you, lass? And be quick about it! My men and I are thirsty!" A roar of approval rose up from the men assembled behind him.

"Well I shan't have to go far," she replied coolly, bristling somewhat at his implication. "_I_ am the owner of this tavern. And as you can plainly see, I am already before you."

"Lass, perhaps you've misunderstood," he grinned, his tone colored with an unbearable condescension. "I'm looking for the _owner_. Not the bar wench. Now go and fetch your father or your brother or uncle or whatever bloody relative hired you to serve the ale. I've no mind to play games with you. At least, none of this sort," he finished, his eyebrow rising suggestively.

"I've misunderstood nothing," she said sweetly, her words dripping honey. "You on the other hand have misheard me, though I suppose I'll forgive your deaf ears on account of the noise in the room. I _am_ the owner of this tavern, young and female though I may be." She forced the scathing edge that had crept into her tone back, replacing it with the calm, business-like tone she had cultivated since she was young. "Rooms I have, enough for you and your men. Ale and food too if you want it. As for games, you passed the brothel on the way to my inn. Take your seats where you will gentlemen," she shouted, turning her attention from the captain and addressing the men assembled behind him. "Ale you'll have in plenty, so long as you've the coin to pay."

With one last look at the captain she turned to go, making her way to the bar with quick, confident strides. She had dealt with the likes of him before, though it never failed to rankle her.

As she worked her way to the taps where Willem was, she passed Tristan. The boy was standing stock still and glaring after the captain as he and his crew took the large table in the corner. Emma paused and looked between the large party and the boy, wondering what on earth could possibly have evoked such a look of loathing from him.

With sudden, horrible understanding, she landed a blow squarely on Tristan's shoulder, just in time for the captain's eyes to find her. She shot him a glare of her own and turned to face Tristan, a look of confusion and hurt flashing across his eyes as a quick yelp escaped his lips. Her eyes burned with an anger only partially caused by his infuriating look, the flames fanned by both her earlier interactions with the boy and by her recent encounter with the captain.

"What in the _bloody hell_ are you thinking?!" she admonished. "That man over there would probably run you through with his sword as soon as speak to you, or he could have one of his burly sea-hardened friends do it for him. Not to mention that he's a paying customer. If you offend him and make him leave, I swear to god Tristan I'll - "

"But he was impugning your honor!" the boy cut across her indignantly. "I heard it with me own two ears. I won't let him speak to you like that, Miss Emma. Any man that dares to say such things deserves t - "

"Tristan," she stopped him, her voice laced with anger, "if you so much as look at those men again, I swear I'll throw you out. I've been looking after myself for years, and the last thing I need if some...some _boy_ stepping in when I have things perfectly handled! Now get back to work!" With a final look that threw daggers, she stormed away from him. His face was a mask of shock and hurt, but Emma did not have it in her at the moment to care. The rational side of her knew that he meant well, but she couldn't find any kindness to spare. The entire conversation had been held in a rather loud whisper, and yet her fury had been as tangible to him as if she had slapped him. Her angry footsteps brought her to the bar quickly, and she asked Willem to pour several pitchers of ale more harshly than she had meant to.

"Miss Emma," he sighed, having noticed their heated exchange, "I know m'boy's feelings. And I've known you since you were no higher than a barrel o'ale. But you have to let him down gentle-like. If only for my sake."

She stared at him, her expression softening as she took in his words. "I know, Willem," her voice showing more exhaustion now than venom, "But he overstepped his bounds back there. I can't have his..._feelings,_" she said, almost forcing the word out, "getting in the way of _my_ business."

"I know, darlin'. I know." Willem murmured. "Jus' have a talk with 'im t'morrow and see if you can work things out between yerselves. Might be he'll surprise you."

Emma gave a short, half-smile in return, knowing that anything that Tristan had to say was nothing that she wanted to hear. As Willem began to pour the ale, she turned and placed her back to the bar, leaning against the soft, worn wood. Her temper, which had cooled almost entirely, flared up again in a flash. Her eyes found the captain, where he was sitting with his crew, his eyes flitting continuously between her and Tristan not far off, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He turned to one of his men and whispered something is his ear, his gaze now fixed upon her. Suddenly, both he and his mate broke into gales of laughter, which sent Emma spinning back around to face Willem, a heated flush covering her cheeks and neck. Forget talking, she was certainly going to kill Tristan.

Willem's back was turned at the barrel, so she had a moment to compose herself and calm her tempestuous emotions once more. As she simmered, she decided that she would not allow this new captain to vex her. After all, he would be gone by morning, or at the very most by the morning after, and with any luck, she would never see him again. Many roguish captains had entered her tavern before, and not a one had ever irritated her. She would not give him the satisfaction. From now on, her demeanor would be cool and firm. She would offer nothing she wouldn't give and would take all that she was due and nothing more.

With practiced hands she picked up four large pitchers of ale, two in each hand, and made her way over to the table of men. A hearty cheer went up from the group as she approached, and two of the men detached themselves to take the pitchers from her arms. She left and returned moments later with a stack of cups, passing them down the table from man to man. She placed the final cup in front of the captain and turned to go, only to find her hand trapped against the rim of the glass. Her eyes found the captain's, searching them for his reason for such entrapment, and not entirely liking what she found. A mischievous grin slid into place, making her stomach drop uncomfortably.

"Lover's quarrel, sweetheart?" he taunted as his gaze moved somewhere over her shoulder. "From the way your gentleman caller is looking at me currently, I'd say he's not fond of our little intrigue," he finished as his thumb caressed the back of her hand.

"He isn't my gentleman caller," she insisted, wondering why she felt the need to explain herself. "He's my under my employ and doesn't like when the men who come into my tavern take advantage of my hospitality."

"Oh to be sure," he replied in mock seriousness. "And he's a fine lad to be so concerned for your well-being. If only he looked like more of a hardened man instead of a codfish, I might be more inclined to behave myself." He winked impishly at her, causing a look of disgust to flit across her features. "As it is, I'm much more inclined to continue as I am, seeing as you rather seem to be enjoying yourself."

Emma scoffed, "And what, pray tell, makes you think I'm enjoying your inappropriate overtures?"

A grin that Emma did not much like lit his face. Somehow, she knew, she had fallen perfectly into whatever trap he had set for her.

"Because, love, you haven't taken your hand away."

She glanced downward, finding her hand still trapped beneath his own atop the glass, his thumb still skimming lightly across her skin. Scowling, she ripped her hand from his and stormed away, moving faster has she heard the roar of laughter from the table behind her .

Her head was pounding and heat was flushing her pale skin once more. She simply hadn't noticed, of course, that her hand had been left under his. Thinking back, she though she could remember pulling her hand away. Or at least wanting to. Hadn't she? As she paced away, her thoughts swam together from what was, more than likely, exhaustion.

It seemed impossible that the night was still so young. Darkness had spread its wings across the land, sending shadows ahead to seep beneath the windows and doors. Emma glanced out of the windows on her way back to the bar, seeing nothing but the inky blackness and the reflection of the numerous flames from the fire and the candles. She wished now for the long days of summer, where the darkness truly meant the night. She felt now that her day should be completed, yet knew that it was a long way from over.

For the next hour or so she bustled about from table to table, hardly daring to glance over at the group of men huddled in the corner. Though she never looked, she could certainly hear them, and every burst of laughter set her to wondering what else the captain had found to laugh at her expense.

Making the rounds to her usual patrons cheered her somewhat, and her interactions with the less nefarious of her customers helped to steel her for what she knew must come. It was customary when hosting a large party to take the group's leader, or at least, the one with the purse, on a tour of their accommodations. In truth it was simply a formality. Most men would sleep wherever there was a roof and bed, and Emma had never known any man, great or inconsequential, to turn up their nose at a room at _Mary's Harbor House_. Formality though the practice was, it was usually used as a moment where payment could be handled discreetly. Mortified as she might be at the thought of interacting with the captain again, especially alone, she knew that it must be done.

Her shoulders squared, she marched back over to their table. The captain was deep in conversation with one of his crew, and she had to clear her throat several times before gaining his attention. Several of his crew were sporting faces flushed with drink, but the captain seemed sober enough to her immense relief. His expression was one of annoyance as he turned slowly away from his crewman to face her.

"I don't recall signaling you for more ale, wench," he snapped, a flicker of anger in his kohl-rimmed eyes.

She was somewhat taken aback by his attitude. She had expected only repetition of his unsubtle advances, but not this harshness that confronted her now. His attitude seemed to be as intemperate as the sea, and only confirmed her suspicions that any dealing with him would be unpleasant. Resigned to her task and determined not to allow him the satisfaction of seeing how he had unbalanced her, she fixed him with a stony glare and pushed on.

"If this isn't a good time, I can come back later. But I had hoped to show you our rooms upstairs and make sure they were to your satisfaction."

His expression lifted noticeably at that, and his annoyance seemed to slip away in an instant. He turned to his mates, a bawdy grin stretching across his lips. "Gents, excuse me. This young lady wants to show me to my chambers." A gale of laughter rose from the sailors, and Emma turned to stalk away upstairs, not caring whether the pirate was following her or not.

The shouts and laughter faded as she climbed to the hall above. It was dark in the passageway, but she had grabbed a candle from an empty table as she had passed by. The flickering light gave her immediate surroundings an orange glow, leaving most of the shadows untouched in their corners and the rest of the hall dimly lit from the moonlight that seeped through the open bedroom doors. It was cool, for she and Ashley had left the windows open in order to allow the rooms to air out. Drafts chilled her as she passed each door on her way to the large room at the end of the hall that had once been her parents. The candle guttered with each passing breeze, causing her shadow to shudder alongside her as if it too were cold.

She hated with every fiber of her being that this man would be sleeping in her parents bed. Something about it seemed inherently wrong, though she couldn't imagine why. Plenty of captains and other important men had laid their heads there, and yet it bothered her greatly that this particular gentleman would be doing the same. She sighed, almost blowing out the candle with the weight of her breath, and told herself to stop being churlish. For whatever reason she had allowed this man to get under her skin, but she would not allow her personal irritation with the man to keep her from a pocket full of gold at the end of the night.

Footsteps behind her told her that she was not alone. She turned, seeing that the captain had indeed chosen to follow her upstairs and continued on to the end of the hallway, leaving him to follow in her wake. She entered the room and turned to face the door. Her back was to the large picture window, and she felt goose pricks cascade along the length of her body as the night wind off the sea chilled her.

The captain rounded the corner, his black clothes causing him to blend in to the dark shadows in the hall. As he entered the room and the moonlight lit his features, Emma quietly allowed that he was a striking person. His assuredness, though tiresome, caused him to bear himself well, and his clothes were all well tailored, if a little battered by the sea. He took several leisurely paces into the room and, Emma noted with a slight twinge of annoyance, seemed to act as though he owned the place as he settled himself leaning upright against the bed frame. He looked at her with a plainly bored expression plastered on his face, seemingly waiting for her to begin speaking. As he folded his arms across his chest, a glint of silver caught her eye. A wicked looking hook gleamed in the moonlight at the end of his left hand, causing her to gasp aloud.

"Finally noticed it then, have you?" he said wryly. "Nice to know my dashing good looks can distract from even this monstrosity." He brought the hook in front of his face, turning it back and fourth as though inspecting it, a hint of disgust intermingling with the boredom still etched there.

"How..." she began, not knowing whether it was wise to ask, "how did you-"

"You wanted to show me the rooms I believe?" he replied coolly, his eyes flashing a warning.

"Yes, forgive me. I shouldn't have asked." Cursing herself for her rudeness, she glanced around the room distractedly as another damnable blush heated her face.

His head cocked slightly, an amused smile lifting the corner of one of his lips. "Not at all, love. I like a woman with an abundance of..._curiosity_," he purred, winking conspiratorially.

And suddenly the overt flirtation was back. Emma almost breathed a sigh of relief. This type of man she knew how to deal with. It was the several different men that the captain seemed to be that perplexed her.

"Well," she continued, applying a layer of false cheerfulness to her words, "this will be your room. It's the best in the tavern. The other rooms are not quite so spacious, but come equipped with two single beds apiece. If the rooms are indeed to your satisfaction then I will have Ashley come and light the fires so that you and your men will be comfortable. Breakfast is included in the cost of the rooms. Do you have any questions for me or shall we set a price?"

As she finished her speech his eyebrow shot skyward. "What's your rush, love?" he cooed, using his shoulder to push off from the bedpost and take a step towards her. "You've only just gotten me up here, and it seems as though you would wish to end our little intimate gathering."

With the grace of a panther, he prowled across the room. Emma stood her ground for a moment, but began backing toward the wall as he neared, her instincts overpowering her desire to stand firm. His eyes narrowed slightly when he noticed, but his step did not falter. Only when her back was pressed against the solid wood did Emma manage to find her voice.

"That's enough," she declared, the angry edge to her voice bringing him up short. She used this to her advantage, taking control of the situation and pushing away from the wall, closing the remaining gap between them until she stood mere inches from him. She glared up into his dark eyes and matched his scowling expression. "I am _not_ to be toyed with, sir. This is _my_ tavern, and you will show me the respect and courtesy that my status demands or you will leave my establishment. You may be used to women falling at your feet but I am not, nor will I _ever_ be one of them. Now, I do indeed with to end our 'intimate gathering' as you put it, because I have many other patrons waiting for me downstairs. So, will you be staying or not? Because if you do, know that my hospitality does not include keeping you warm tonight."

They stood there for awhile, her breathing coming in short, angry huffs as they each stared the other down, unwilling to be the first to give in. After a moment, she heard the rustling of cloth and the clonk of coin, and a small purse suddenly swung in front of her eyes. He dropped the bag, and her hands flashed out to catch it as he turned and strode from the room, leaving her standing there, alone and uncertain.

After a moment's hesitation, she pulled on the drawstring and opened the pouch, revealing a small fortune in gold inside. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a small gasp. This was, at the very least, five times what she would have charged the lot of them, but she was not about to argue. Emma flew out the door and turned left, taking the servants stair down to the kitchens to tell Ashley of all that had transpired.

After apprising Ashley of the situation, Emma stood there patiently; waiting for what she was sure would be a scathing remark towards the loathsome captain in a show of solidarity. She stared smugly at Ashley, arms folded across her chest and waited for her to speak.

"Hmm..." hummed Ashley thoughtfully after a moment. "He _is_ frightfully handsome though, don't you think?"

Emma's mouth fell open in shock, though, considering who she was talking to, she shouldn't have been half so surprised. "Ash! Is that really all you have to say? He's...he's...vile! How could you even think that?"

"Emma," replied Ashley with the air of a mother explaining something simple to a child, "I honestly don't understand how you can be so...so _blind_ sometimes. It's as if you've no...womanly inclinations," she finished with a blush.

Emma felt herself redden; a combination of annoyance, anger, and embarrassment. A string of harsh, burning words bubbled up to her sputtering lips, but all she managed to get out was a strangled "ooooph!" before she slammed the pouch of gold on the table and fled upstairs.

The warm air of the main floor was stifling. Bodies were packed tightly against one another, each jostling for space at the long bar. Emma pushed her way to the counter, grabbing two pitchers of ale from Willem before deftly weaving her way out of the packed mess of men. It had been awhile since she had brought the table of sailors a refill, and she would do it now before she lost her nerve once more.

She cursed herself silently as she wended her way towards the corner table, wondering again why in the world her will of iron had failed her so many times tonight. She was all but famous for her tenacity and resilience in the face of any challenge, so why was it that she was suddenly failing to measure up to this one. As she neared the men, she shook her head vigorously as if to clear it of all her confused and muddled thoughts, comforting herself with the fact that come morning the men and their captain would be gone.

She had not been down with Ashley long, but the table was covered with discarded glasses and empty flagons of beer and wine. The captain, much to her dismay, was currently nursing a glass of what appeared to be rum, the flask in front of him already two-thirds gone. If she had been relieved when she realized her was still sober upstairs, she felt nothing but distress now.

She set the pitchers down carefully on the table, turning quickly away in the hopes of avoiding conversation.

She was not fast enough.

A hand with a vice-like grip shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her backwards and knocking her off balance and landing her square in the lap of the captain.

"What? No sweet smile for the gentlemen?" he slurred with a lazy grin on his lips, his arm snaking across her torso. "A man could get offended by such inhospitable behavior."

A thread snapped, and she was lost to all sense.

With a rough shove she managed to free herself from his embrace. In one smooth, singular motion she stood, turned, and slapped his full across the face. A resounding crack echoed across the bar, causing silence to fall in its wake. Her breath heaving in anger, she began to yell.

"If you _ever_ touch me again I swear to all the gods above you will never set foot in the tavern again! I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you will _not_ treat me such."

As she finished she stood there, seething with rage. Something dark flashed behind his eyes, speaking of things that made Emma's breath stop in terror. She would pay for her words, she knew, but how, she knew not. Before he could frighten her further, she spun around to face the crowd of staring men, a smile plastered in place.

"The next round's on me lads!" she yelled triumphantly, certain in spite of his unsettling glance that she had won, at least for now. Besides, she had a hoard of loyal men around her, and a rather intimidating man tending her bar. She needn't fear anything from those men. Nothing at all.

The remainder of the night passed without incident. The men at the corner table were less boisterous then they had been before her outburst, but remained the loudest group in the tavern. The captain joined in their merriment but rarely, preferring instead to sit sullenly in silence. She came over but twice more to keep them well in ale, and each time he offered her the same dark glare. A lance of fear shot through her heart at his looks, though she could not find the answer as to why. She was, after all, perfectly in control here. There was nothing this man could do in her tavern without placing himself at the mercy of her patrons, and Willem, she knew, would gladly defend her to the death. And yet, on some distant and primal plane of consciousness, she was terrified.

The room slowly began to empty as the night wore on. Men went home to their wives, sailors went back to their galleys at the docks, and shop-keepers went to their small but homely lofts above their shops. Soon only a handful of men remained aside from the sailors still huddled at their table in the corner. Emma glanced around the room, taking stock of what yet needed to be done and fighting an ever-present yawn.

A soft tap on her shoulder made her jump slightly, and she turned to find Willem standing behind her, his woolen coat in hand and accompanied by a slightly sullen looking Tristan. It was well past midnight then, for the two of them usually took their leave around then. She offered Willem, and even Tristan a weary smile, hoping beyond hope that she would find her bed not long after they found theirs.

"If yer want us ter stay, we will Miss Emma," said Willem, his usually gruff voice made even huskier with the late hour. His eyes slid to the men and their captain, his gaze full of distrust and mislike.

"Thank you, but I'll be fine, Willem. Always am."

"Don't think I don't know that Miss Emma. But considering the circumstances..."

"I've handled this sort before, and I can do it again," she replied, a note of affection in her voice at the man's father-like concern. "Goodnight, Willem. Goodnight, Tristan. I'll see you both on the morrow."

Throwing one last look at the captain and his crew, Willem nodded curtly before striding to the door. Tristan shuffled after his father, sparing neither Emma, not the men a single glance. The door opened, letting in a swift gust of chill night air. Emma shivered before the door closed once more, thanking her lucky stars that she had no need to leave her tavern tonight.

Methodically, she slowly began to clear off the tables and clean them each with quick sweeps of a damp rag. Ashley joined her shortly after she began, and the two of them made quick work of the room. When Emma looked up from her final table, the last customer was staggering out the door, leaving only the table in the corner filled with men. She sighed with relief, knowing that her own feather bed was not too far off.

With purposeful steps she made her way to Ashley, intent now on finishing her work and taking her well earned rest. She dismissed the flour-coated girl for the night, and with a grateful smile and a large yawn, Ashley trotted down the stairs to her little room off the kitchen, as ready as Emma was to lay her head down.

Smiling after the girl, Emma made her way over to the table that her final guest had just abandoned. As she lifted the glass in her hand and began to clean, she heard the scrape of benches against the floor from behind her. Intent on finishing her task, she did not turn. "Your beds are ready and the fires lit, gentlemen. Enjoy your rest."

A pair of boots stepped up behind her, and a smooth, honeyed voice assaulted her ears.

"Excuse me, lass, but there'll be one more thing my men and I need before we go."

She straightened, turning slowly around to face him. "Yes, what can I-" The darkness had deepened within his eyes, his icy gaze cold enough to freeze her into place. A fear deeper than any she'd known shot through her as his mouth curled upward in a wicked sneer.

"You."

A sharp pain lanced across her skull. The glass she had been holding shattered on the floor. Emma Swan's world swam before her, his grin widening as she began to fall into blackness.


End file.
